What I’m Expecting From My First Ever Trip To New Orleans This Weekend

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To die? Truth be told, this isn’t setting up well for me. A bachelor party in New Orleans with half the TFM office and the groom’s drunken, Lone Star and whiskey guzzling, extremely Texan cousins and friends? The last time I went away on a bachelor party with that sort of lineup – in Chicago with my fraternity brothers — I ended up having to chug Red Bulls and Five Hour Energies just to keep what was at that point more my corpse than my body animated, after a day of drinking so aggressive that the first three hours alone would have knocked most people unconscious, all so that I could continue breaking bottles in bars and accosting strangers for drunken shits and gigs. And that was just in Chicago, which, though a great drinking city, seems like Mayberry compared to New Orleans.

My liver hurts just thinking about this weekend. It’s a mysterious, sharp pain; as if there’s some voodoo woman pricking a doll made in my likeness (made out of white sheets and stuffed with, I don’t know? Candy? As symbolism for my general immaturity?) right in the liver, because she had a vision of a blackout drunk me taking a dump on the table she reads tarot cards on.

Just kidding. Someone taking a dump on your property is a standard Tuesday in New Orleans, from what I’ve heard. Yesterday I was having a discussion with Dorn and NEW YORK TIMES BEST SELLING AUTHOR W.R. Bolen about the differences between Vegas and New Orleans, what I would consider to be America’s two best party cities (Sorry New York, fuck off Miami). I said I was most excited for New Orleans because, although Vegas was fun, it’s a very clearly a manufactured sort of entertainment. Vegas is basically fake tits, and all the positives and negatives some giant, man-made sweater cannons entail. To me, New Orleans seems more organic; the fun seems more natural.

Even though I’ve never been, that seems like a perfect, and thus terrifying, way to describe New Orleans. I wrote a similar “What I Expect” type column before visiting The Grove at Ole Miss last year. That preview was more a facetious romanticizing than anything. If I walked into The Grove with arms open, I’m probably walking onto Bourbon Street with my eyes open. That’s partly because I don’t want to forget any of the ridiculous shit I see, and partly because it seems like a good idea to keep your head on a swivel when you’re down there, lest you want a tranny to pull a switchblade out of his fishnet stockings and jack your shit.

That’s not even made up. Got this text from one of my fraternity brothers today.

The famous home of the Hurricane, Pat O’Brien’s, also promised to kick my ass this weekend.

Gratuitous nudity (and not just because the party is paying two nice ladies to hostess a beer pong tournament topless Saturday afternoon).

Meeting the real life personification of the funniest mental image I have of a hooker.

Seeing at least three different types of bodily fluids being expelled from people (likely in public).

A drug deal gone wrong.

A drug deal gone right.

TFM’s three highest-ranking employees to blackout harder than anyone else on at least one of the nights (especially the CEO).

Someone doing something in front of a police officer that would get you tazed and cuffed in most cities, and being ignored.

So. Many. Strippers.

My happiness to vanish in a casino.

Someone getting fucked up on something that’s main purpose is not for recreational ingestion.

Ruining at least one pair of shoes.

To be suspicious about pretty much anything I drink.

But to really not care about it, either.

Anyone who texts me to be ignored, to receive gibberish in return, or to deserve an apology on Monday for whatever I responded with.

And at least a 50% chance my AmEx has a large charge that I really, REALLY fucking regret on Monday.

Mostly I expect to make a fantastic ass of myself. If you see me, buy me a shot to fuel the fire. Also do that because I’ll probably be drunk enough to buy you like five in return. But hey, fuck it. As long as the wedding isn’t ruined by Sunday we’re good. I probably shouldn’t be the one in charge of that though.

Rob Fox (né Bacon) is Director of Video Content and a Senior Writer for Total Frat Move, Rowdy Gentleman, and Post Grad Problems. He is a graduate, without honors, from the University of Missouri. Rob is originally from St. Louis, and currently lives in Austin, Texas. He still has not admitted to his family what he does for a living, and is prone to having wet nightmares ever since losing his virginity in a haunted house. Email: rob@grandex.co

One piece of advice for you DO NOT piss in the street, for some reason the cops have a real hard on for that down there. You could get a blow job from a tranny in the middle of the street wearing a baby diaper and a hat that says “Too Turnt Up” while smoking a 2 foot bong but for some reason pissing in the street is a big no no to the point where i’ve heard stories of them making people take off their own shirts and soak up their own piss. Just some heads up.

Word to the wise: Stay within a mile or two of the tourist areas like the French Quarter and Jackson square. You’ll thank me as 3 am rolls around and you hear gunshots a couple miles off as the riff-raff start waking up. Oh, and eat at Mr. B’s Bistro.

Partying in NOLA is fun and all but you need to take advantage of the food. Get biengets from Cafe du Monde, pralines from Aunt Sally’s, try the seafood platter at Deanies, grab some fried chicken at Mothers and there’s many more. I went for spring break last year and spent way more money on food than booze.